To Succumb with Finesse
by Elwyngirlie
Summary: On the day Tsuzuki relives his suicide, a figure from the past comes back into his and Hisoka's life, bringing murder and mayhem. Full summary inside. PostKyoto. [Ch. 9]
1. Ch1: The Idea of Suicide

Disclaimer: Yami No Matsuei is the property of Matsushita Yoko. I make no claim to the characters, story, etc, although I claim an OCs (which I have tried to keep down to a minimum).

Quotes used without permission of authors. If you want the full citation for either the Coldplay or the Cavell, email me and I'll send it off (why anyone would want that, I don't know, but I'm putting it in for the fic police at FFNet).

This is my first, long, real fiction; its not one of my usual one-shots. Any advice for it is wanted and much appreciated.

Summary: On the day Tsuzuki relives his death through suicide, he and Hisoka are assigned a difficult case, which reminds them of a figure from both of their pasts. Meanwhile, Hisoka is learning what it means to live in a world where he asked Tsuzuki to live for him. Post Kyoto, anime only. I suck at summaries, sorry. :(

Pairings: Essentially, its TsuSoka, but they aren't together right off the bat.

Reviews wanted and needed. What can I say? I'm needy.

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"The idea of suicide, further, combines with the idea of breaking of attunement, the killing of one's connection with others, one's craving for exemption from human nature, to yield the crime of killing the humanity in oneself. It should seem to constitute its own punishment." Stanley Cavell, "Texts of Recovery" _In quest of the ordinary _ 61-62 

"Am I a part of the cure? Or am I part of the disease?"—Coldplay, Clocks

Meifu

Tsuzuki Asato stood in his apartment, wondering which tie to wear. Always the same black, always the same white shirt, as if he could never wear anything but the colors of mourning. _Who do you mourn for_? he asked himself as he ran one idle finger down the length of his thin tie before he mechanically ran it through its course and securing the knot. He stood still in the silence, looking at his reflection before a knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. After a moment, the door opened and Kurosaki Hisoka came in, calling Tsuzuki's name.

"We are going to be late," Hisoka chided, breaking the careful silence of the apartment. The younger man walked into Tsuzuki's room and balked at the cleanliness. Usually, his partner's bedroom was a mess, the floor covered with clothes and magazines, dust covering the furniture, the sheets tangled and half on the floor. But everything was pristine this morning.

Tsuzuki noticed the confused expression on Hisoka's face. "I couldn't sleep last night," he offered with a lopsided smile. Hisoka quickly wiped his face clean of all expression.

"Well at least you did something productive for once, "he snapped back. Tsuzuki suppressed a sigh; he knew the younger man was acerbic to protect himself, to make sure no one hurt him but sometimes it was a little too much to bear. Especially on a day like today. On a day when the sunlight seemed to cut through him like a blade; on a day when all he craved was an impregnable silence; on the day he died seventy-one years ago.

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_ Short huh? I don't promise not to have any more cliffies, but I wanted to repond to the Cavell quote directly. Chapter 2 is one its way, I promise. _


	2. Ch2: Assignment

Yay! Chapter 2!

Disclaimer: Yami No Matsuei is the property of Matsushita Yoko. I make no claim to the characters, story, etc. Do you know how much paperwork that would require?

Sorry about the grammar/spelling errors in the last chapter. I don't proofread as well as I should. My eye runs over the words too quickly. I'll try to catch them next time.

Comments and constructive criticism wanted and much appreciated. :)

* * *

"If I thought that my reply were to  
be to someone who would ever return to  
the world, this flame would still, without  
further motion."--Dante, _The Inferno_ Canto XXVII lines 61-64 

Konoe Kacho wondered if this was a good idea, wondered if today was a good day to assign Tsuzuki and Hisoka to a case. But the case was marked particularly for the pair by the Earl. He couldn't refuse nor could he tell the pair why the case was marked for them. The pair had a relationship with the number one suspect. Rarely did a case arrive on his desk with a suspect's name attached but these murders were too similar to the ones which occurred in Kyoto for the GuShoShin to resist attaching a file. And today of all days…

As he was following that train of thought, he heard a knock.

"Come in," he said gruffly. The door opened and the two detectives walked in. Konoe studied Tsuzuki's face carefully. The man, who normally exuded joy and cheer, was abnormally silent and stern. His lips were closed and tight. Hisoka's face was also clouded with the strain of blocking his partner's emotions. Although Tsuzuki was shielding, he couldn't prevent anxiety from spilling over and into the empath.

Konoe gestured toward the seats in front of his desk. The pair sat and he wordlessly handed them the thick folder. His office door opened and closed with a precision that could only indicate Tatsumi Seiichirou, the JuOhCho division's secretary. Tatsumi stood behind the pair. Hisoka adjusted in his seat. He could feel the tension in the air, heavy and cool, like a wet pair of jeans, clinging when he wanted them off. _Why is everyone so tense? What happened?_ he wondered. _Why won't they say anything?_

In fact, Konoe was reviewing the case but Hisoka wasn't listening. His mind was on Tsuzuki, on the silence, on the heaviness. _Stale, like a wolf's breath_, he thought and shifted again. Tatsumi did not fail to notice that the usually still boy was fidgety, pulling at his jacket cuffs and twisting in his seat like a schoolboy waiting for the bell to ring.

_Today of all days_, Tatsumi thought but his face betrayed nothing. Outwardly, he was calm and icy, smoothly reviewing the budget for the men in the seats.

"No more than 3000 yen a day," he reminded them. He expected Tsuzuki to groan and express disapproval, but the younger man was silent. Quietly, the two detectives stood up and Hisoka accepted the card which Tatsumi held out. Giving his thanks, he followed Tsuzuki out the door. Tatsumi shot Konoe a glance which would have cut steel before pushing his glasses up.

"Why today of all days?" he asked. Konoe shrugged.

"It came from the Earl directly with their names on it."

"But division two is Watari's district."

"Yes, I know. Noticed how they didn't."

"You avoided the question."

"I didn't hear one."

"Then let me re-phrase so I'll be sure you understand. Why are they going to Kyoto when Nagasaki is their district?" Tatsumi's voice, usually so cool, was colder than ice, and just as brittle. Konoe met Tatsumi's gaze levelly.

"Because they are familiar with this pattern and familiar with the prime suspect." Tatsumi caught his breath.

"Muraki." It was not a question. Konoe nodded imperceptibly and noticed the skin around Tatsumi's eyes tightening.

"Tatsumi-san, you are not to help in any way. No interference. The only permissible interference is from Watari as it is his district and our resident doctor. The Earl has marked this case."

"Marked it as what?"

"Not as a what. He marked it with a warning. He just wants this entire office to be kept especially alert, to keep an eye on the pair."

"Yet he sends them out there."

"He thinks Muraki is out for Tsuzuki again. Sending Watari would place another Shinigami at risk."

"And sending Tsuzuki, who nearly died because of this man, isn't a risk!"Tatsumi thundered.

"No," Konoe replied calmly. "You know how powerful Tsuzuki is."

"But last time--"Tatusmi was cut off.

"I know. This case is being closely watched, and not just by us. Now, Tatsumi-san, isn't there a budget report due today?" Konoe's voice, calm as usual, indicated a dismissal. Tatsumi straightened and bowed, slightly, before leaving the room as precisely as he entered it. Konoe let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. Threatening a Shadow-Master was never a good idea. Nor was sending Tsuzuki and Hisoka straight into Muraki's arms.

"I'm going to regret this. We all are," Konoe whispered.


	3. Ch 3: Sparring Sessions

Disclaimer: Yami No Matsuei is the property of Matsushita Yoko. I make no claim to the characters, story, etc. All other standard disclaimers apply because originality quota is low today.

Spoilers: Anime, only. Post Kyoto Arc. I am familiar with the manga, mainly from the lovely site at Theria. net to which I owe much props for help when I was first introduced to Yami and I wanted to know more. Many, many thanks. I know Tsuzuki and Hisoka go into GenSouKai after Kyoto, but I prefer to keep it anime only, probably to keep it as angst-y as possible.

Full summary is at the beginning of chapter one.

Oh, no reviews. :( Why do I keep posting? Because I have to get it out of my head and out in the world. Random.

Also, no quote for this chapter. Couldn't think of any thing that fit. Don't worry! More will be coming!

Thanks for reading.

* * *

Kyoto 

Fall descended on the Kyoto silently the night before. Overnight, the green trees became flushed with rich reds, oranges, and yellows. The leaves began to drop to the ground and hint of coolness hung in the air with a promise of winter. Hisoka inhaled the fresh crisp air and shivered slightly. He pulled his jacket tightly around him. Tsuzuki did not fail to notice the action and smiled.

"Failed to bring warm clothes, eh, Bon?" Tsuzuki commented. Hisoka brightened a bit, hearing the laughter in his partner's voice. But he glared at the older man, muttering an insult under his breath. Tsuzuki, hearing only the usual "baka," laughed. Hisoka felt Tsuzuki's joy, but felt the darker, sweeter undercurrent. Sweeter because it was familiar. As if despair could be sweet.

Hisoka sighed. He didn't like feeling Tsuzuki's anxiety. Not only because he didn't like to see the older man in pain but because he was responsible for Tsuzuki.

"Live for me," he had cried as Touda's flames surrounded them. Tsuzuki had looked up at the boy, into his clear but darkened emerald eyes and had agreed. For nine months Hisoka had been learning to live with that request. He took care of Tsuzuki, invited him over for dinner, made sure to cheer him up. He spent time learning how to tell jokes. In learning to be someone Tsuzuki wanted to live for, Hisoka had dropped many shields, had lightened up. No one failed to notice the change.

But what no one knew was what Oriya Mibu had pointed out to Hisoka one night. No one, not even Tsuzuki, knew that a sort of friendship had developed between the two. Hisoka wanted someone to practice kendo with and Oriya seemed the perfect companion. After all, hadn't he nearly sliced Hisoka in half? _I never said I wasn't the only glutton for punishment in this group_, Hisoka thought as he approached KoKakuRou brothel one night in hopes of finding Oriya alone.

The older man sat in meditation on the ground, a katana in front of him, a pipe in his mouth. He neither looked surprised nor uncomfortable when Hisoka showed up.

"Can I help you?" he asked pleasantly. Hisoka bowed slightly.

"I hope so."

"If you are looking for Muraki-san, I am afraid I can not be of service," Oriya said, anticipating Hisoka's question. He ran a quick eye over the young boy and knew what Muraki had found attractive; if he hadn't, the boy would have been dead, pure and simple. The boy was so fresh and so fragile in the moonlight. Like the porcelain cup he was drinking from. Pretty enough to be a girl. Pretty enough to entertain one of the many politicians which came through his doors.

"Actually, I'm not here about Muraki."

"Then what are you here for?" He asked, intrigued.

"I'm here for you," he said, drawing a gruff laugh from the other man. Oriya pulled the pipe out of his mouth.

"I didn't know I was any of your concern, unless of course, I'm dying?" There was no regret in the question, only mild curiousity. .

"You're not. But I want to practice kendo and I would appreciate a few sparring sessions with you." Oriya laughed again and agreed—under one condition. For every evening they sparred, Hisoka would have to spend a night entertaining his customers. At first, Hisoka balked at the idea, but once Oriya assured him that no sex was involved, Hisoka found himself sitting at a table, serving tea to a member of Japan's parliament. Usually a taciturn boy, he was worried that he would have to chat with these men. But he didn't. One of the women or the politician would do all the talking; Hisoka had to sit there, look pretty, and tell a joke, or give a compliment every now and then.

Oriya only subjected the boy to the rooms for an hour. He could see that the young boy was uncomfortable and unlike Muraki, he did not derive any pleasure from hurting people. Often, after sparring or after being rescued, they would share some tea. Usually they were silent but one summer night Hisoka couldn't seem to keep his mouth shut.

After one particularly amusing comment, Oriya laughed. Hisoka stopped and looked at him.

"What?"

"You feel responsible for him." Oriya said.

"No I'm not."

"You just said you aren't, instead of you don't," Oriya prodded gently. A curl of smoke escaped through his mouth as he exhaled. Hisoka stiffened. Oriya continued. With the boy, he could.

"You are responsible for him. And your responsibility has opened you up. You are afraid of not being good enough."

"You don't know me," Hisoka shot back, becoming defensive again. But, deep down (not even that far down, he would admit to himself late at night), he was afraid. Oriya was right. Oriya studied the boy through his thick brown hair and held back a chuckle. He was right and the boy knew it. Hisoka stood up and gathered up his stuff. He stood stiff, his thin back as straight as though a rod was holding him up. The bearing of a noble.

"I must go, Kurosaki-kun. My clients await," Oriya said, gracefully getting to his feet. The two bowed and Hisoka materialized back into Meifu. Oriya shook his head and walked back into the restaurant, reminding a girl not to forget to put the tea away.

Hisoka, lost in these memories, forgot the cold and forgot the world. He failed to hear Tsuzuki call his name.

"Hisoka? Are you okay?" Tsuzuki asked. Hisoka jerked back as Tsuzuki touched him tentatively. The hand withdrew quickly and concern radiated from his partner. Concern, worry, fear. Fear that he had done something. Fear that he didn't live up to his promise.

"No, no, you're fine," Hisoka mumbled, wondering why he constantly reassured the older man. Always he was giving him comforting words, allowing himself to occasionally hold his hand, as if it would make everything better. Always the right hand. To make himself feel better, as if hand holding could cure all of Tsuzuki's pain.

He was lying to himself and he knew it, which made it worse. He wondered if it would have been better if he hadn't leapt into Touda's flames. He wondered this at least ten times a day as he watched Tsuzuki continuously put himself at risk, continuously make promises he couldn't keep and continuously fall apart when he failed. Hisoka shivered again, but not from the cold. He indistinctly heard himself tell Tsuzuki that he was fine, that he was just cold, and maybe they should grab some dinner. Tsuzuki didn't look convinced, but led him to a restaurant which served an awesome triple chocolate caramel tart. Hisoka let him eat three pieces.

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_Slightly longer than the others, but the next one will be longer, I promise. I know it seems a little odd for Hisoka to go to Oriya, but I think he would have to respect some one who was an able swordsman(I know this isn't the correct term, but for the life of me, I can't remember it). Since I think Hisoka operates on a level of respect (can't get rid of that noble background), I can see him turning to Oriya. Or perhaps I'm just crazy. _  



	4. Ch 4: Revelations

Disclaimer: Yami No Matsuei is the property of Matsushita Yoko. I make no claim to the characters, story, etc until I take over the world. Then I can afford to and let the claimin' begin!

A full summary can be found at chapter one.

The quote is from Adam Phillips's excellent _Terrors and Experts_, page 15. It is him quoting Chesterton. If you are interested in psychoanalysis, but are afraid of reading Freud straight (like me!), Phillips is the perfect introduction.

Thanks to my first reviewer--you rock! I hope this chapter clears somethings up.  
I'm afraid so far that the story is presenting itself as a series of one-shots but it is actually a story. There is actually a plot (gasp). Hopefully, one of the threads should make its appearances in this chapter.

Thanks for reading.

* * *

"The madman is not the man who has lost his reason. The madman is the man who has lost everything except his reason."--G.K. Chesterton, _Orthodoxy_

The next morning dawned cold and clear. They immediately headed to a park where the bodies had been found. Three women. There were no marks on their bodies; nothing to indicate how or why they had died. Their souls had not arrived either. There was something familiar about this case. As if it had happened before.

Hisoka pulled his coat closed. He hated how cold he got. Tsuzuki noticed his partner shiver slightly as he scanned the area. There was nothing unusual about the park.

"How many days between each woman?" Hisoka asked.

"Three. We are due for another one tonight," Tsuzuki replied softly. Hisoka tensed. He knew what Tsuzuki was thinking—anything to prevent another day. He became inwardly stiff. He was tired of Tsuzuki offering himself up as if he meant nothing. He was slowly beginning to think that perhaps Touda should have been allowed to take Tsuzuki.

_Stop that_, he mentally chastised himself. He didn't believe that. No one did, not even Tsuzuki right? No one wanted to be swallowed up by Touda's black flames.

"Perhaps we should stake out the park tonight," Hisoka murmured. Tsuzuki nodded and they bent their heads together, figuring out their plan. Anyone walking by would have seen two people in love, perhaps, their heads close together, their hands gesturing, glances exchanged out of the corners of eyes. Occasional touches, light ones, on the hands, or legs. No one would have thought they were planning to stop a murder. One person did. One person watched. One person did not alter one's plans.

* * *

Tsuzuki could not say for sure when night arrived. One moment, they were eating and he was begging Hisoka for another piece of pie. Hisoka was his usual firm self and said no. Pouting, he walked outside with him, heading toward the park. The next moment, night had fallen. The park, which was brighter earlier, with children running and playing, trying to capture the last bit of warm sun before it went into hibernation, was now dark and dank. The leaves skidded across the sidewalk in a small current of wind. The air, once warmed by the sun, now surrounded their forms, visible only when they exhaled in a small cloud. Cold and biting.

Tsuzuki shivered and tightened the coat around him. He unconsciously glanced at his watch and grimaced internally when he caught sight of a scar, pale on pale skin, making it all the whiter. He wasn't aware of stopping and staring at his wrist; all he could remember was the relief he felt every time darkness closed in on him as the life flowed out. All he could remember was the despair—dark and sticky, suffocating—as he awoke and realized he had failed. Despair at being alive, despair at even managing to screw up dying.

"Tsuzuki?" Hisoka's husky voice failed to make much noise in the dead air. His partner did not seem to hear him. Hisoka noticed that Tsuzuki's purple eyes were transfixed on his wrist, never moving. There were no tears pooling in his eyes either; in fact, Hisoka noticed as he felt his panic rising, his eyes were losing some of their light. Without thinking, he grabbed Tsuzuki's wrist and gasped.

At that loud intake of breath, Tsuzuki's head snapped up and noticed Hisoka's hand on his wrist. He yanked his wrist back and quickly threw up walls.

"Hisoka? Hisoka!"he cried. He shook the young boy's shoulder. Hisoka seemed to be in some sort of shock. Tsuzuki felt the panic engulfing him.

_I can screw up dying, but I can't fail to fuck up my partners,_ he thought bitterly as he led Hisoka to a bench. The young boy seemed unaware of what was going on; Tsuzuki was too; his attention was on Hisoka.

That is, until a scream tore through the air, shattering the silence. Tsuzuki, unsure of what to do, made sure no one was around to harm Hisoka, leapt up and followed the sound of the scream. It cut short and became almost strangled. His lungs burned with the cold air; his feet hitting the pavement was the only sound; he rounded a corner and his vision was filled with a crimson moon.

"Good evening, Tsuzuki-san."

It was the nightmare come alive. He had only thought that remembering his death was the nightmare; he was wrong; this was much, much worse. This was alive; this was pressing; this was real; this was Muraki, dressed in white, reflecting the glory of his bloodied moon.

He couldn't breathe. The cold filled his lungs, blurred his vision. He didn't know what to do. And Muraki's soft, tender (wait—tender?) mocking laughter told him that the doctor knew that Tsuzuki was frozen, trapped, unable to make a decision. At this point, Tsuzuki's anger, his sense of injustice would rear their ugly heads and take over, but now. Not ever, it would seem. Instead, all he could feel was fear, his feet growing roots into the soil.

"Tsuzuki-san, enjoying a stroll this evening?"Muraki said softly. At his feet lay another woman, lifeless. Tsuzuki could tell from the blank look on her face. But there was no blood, no evidence of how she died. His frustration began to slowly fight back the fear as Muraki glided down the steps separating them. Muraki was chuckling.

"You are being quite rude, Tsuzuki-san. Not only have I greeted you, but I asked about your welfare and you've said nothing. I will forgive you this once and ask where your insufferable companion is."

"Right here." Hisoka's voice, firm and unwavering, shook Tsuzuki out of his fear. He turned and saw the young boy standing tall, glaring at Muraki. The doctor laughed, this time harshly.

"And here I was thanking the gods for your absence. It seems, even now, they abandon me."

"The only thing you believe in is yourself," Hisoka sneered. Muraki laughed again and Tsuzuki shivered. He remembered that laugh as Muraki's hands slowly trailed up his chest, as he slowly unbuttoned Tsuzuki's shirt. He shivered; this was one trip down memory lane he did not want.

Come to think of it, he never wanted to walk down memory lane.

_Focus!_ He scolded himself. He walked over to his partner and stood firm next to him. _If I can't protect Hisoka from me, I can at least protect him from Muraki_. _Oh yeah?_ The voice of doubt murmured. _You haven't done real well in that department yet. And how the hell are you going to protect_ yourself_ from Muraki_? Tsuzuki shook himself free of these thoughts and glared at Muraki who laughed again.

"Jeez, can you do more than laugh? No words at your disposal?" Hisoka said, his straight back betraying his regal heritage. His tone, cold and removed and emotionless, showed more contempt than any of the obscenities or insults Tsuzuki had in his arsenal. His chest swelled with pride. He had a great partner; he should feel lucky.

"How are you killing these woman, Muraki?" Tsuzuki said softly, his voice laced with threats. Muraki cocked his head and regarded the pair with his one good eye. He looked no different than he did in Kyoto. No, wait; he appeared thinner and, if possible, more lost in his insanity than ever.

"What? No questions about how I made it out alive after you called up that vile snake?" Muraki asked. "I've been wondering about that magnificent creature. How does it destroy everything? How does it make black fire?"

Tsuzuki did not answer, but glared more fiercely.

"A Shikigami of incredible power. But, again, how did you know I was alive?" His silver eye glinted as he took in Hisoka for the first time. A sinister chuckle escaped his lips. "Ah, yes, the boy. I suppose my curse appeared again. Tell me, boy, how does it feel to have your body eternally marked by my caress?" Hisoka snarled and took a step forward, as if to engage Muraki in a battle. Tsuzuki's arm stopped him.

"Don't. It's what he wants," he said softly. "You're forgetting why we are here."

Hisoka nodded and went to examine the woman. Muraki watched both of them.

"Tsuzuki-san, I'm surprised you are still with this boy. I thought your partnership would have disintergrated by now. I mean, after all, your partner does spend his nights at a brothel." Tsuzuki could not stop the surprise from coloring his face. A quick glance at Hisoka showed that Muraki was not lying; the boy's face was scarlet. _With shame_, a part of Tsuzuki snarled.

"Muraki, prepare yourself!" Tsuzuki snapped as he pulled out a fuda. The doctor laughed and held out one hand. In it was a vial which glowed softly, like an opal, reflecting different colors.

"Fight me and you lose any chance of saving this woman's soul," he said, his enjoyment apparent in every word. Tsuzuki struggled; he wanted to blast the doctor into oblivion.

"What do you want?" he finally snarled.

"Ah, so now, you get down to business. Always so slow, Tsuzuki-san. But I suppose that's why it took you six years to finally die. Screwed up even your own death." He laughed, but it was hard and screechy, like nails on a blackboard. Nothing like the seduction of which he was capable.

"What do you want?" Hisoka said.

"Not you, little boy. I don't want to touch anything soiled by other men." Hisoka blanched before he colored scarlet again. Muraki smiled softly. The seeds were being sown.

"I will tell you what I want later. Meet me here at this time," he ordered, holding out a card. No one moved to take it. He smirked. "Well you could always ask the boy; it _is_ his favorite brothel." The silence couldn't be any thicker. "I'll see you tomorrow at 8 in the evening." With that, he left in his usual dramatic style—there one moment, gone the next.

And still the silence remained.

* * *

_Updates will be less frequent because the amount of work I have to do is sooo much it's not even funny. Again, thanks for reading, and please review! Especially if you have any advice about how to write Muraki; he troubles me.  
_  



	5. Ch 5: Mourning

Disclaimer: Yami No Matsuei is the property of Matsushita Yoko. I make no claim on the characters, story, etc, other than my OCs, which I hope to keep to a minimum. If only I owned...if only...

Anime only. Post Kyoto Arc.

Spoilers: None. Full summary can be found at chapter one.  
The blurred words are intentional. You'll see when you get there.

Quote is from (again!) Adam Phillips's excellent "Terrors and Experts" pg. 78.

Thanks for reading. And a special thank you for all the reviewers.

* * *

"Mourning is immensely reassuring because it convinces us of something we might otherwise easily doubt: our attachment to others."--Adam Phillips

The woman was taken back to Meifu for Watari to examine her, to discover any spell markings. Tsuzuki went back to the scene, alone, and walked around the area, trying to discover any markings, any clues. But there were none; not like he would have seen them anyways. He was too busy trying to figure out what was going on with Hisoka and a brothel. He didn't bother to ask if it was true. Hisoka's scarlet coloring was more than enough evidence.

_Why?_, he asked, over and over again. _Why a brothel? Why never me?_ Unable to uncover anything helpful, he returned to Meifu, but did not go near the infirmary or the main office; instead, he went to GenSouKai, to seek comfort from his Shikigami.

What greeted him when he arrived was not the friendly face of Byakko nor the concern of Suzaku, but the visor and trappings of Touda. Even beneath the visor, Tsuzuki could sense Touda frowning. He sighed and slumped. He did not want to deal with this.

"I have seen neither hair nor hide of you in many months," Touda said, his smoky voice soft. Tsuzuki groaned. Touda took his hand and led him into a sunny glade in the forest, surrounded by sturdy oaks. A quiet stream flowed through it with a patch of flowers growing on the edge. Touda sat down and pulled Tsuzuki next to him.

"Touda, I'm tired. I don't think I can deal with this right now."

"Because you want to know what's going on with Kurosaki-kun," Touda said. Tsuzuki nodded and slumped even further. He lay down and stretched out on the grass.

"It seems so long ago that we were at dinner, enjoying a nice evening. And then, I overwhelm him with my emotions and then I find out this," he said. He sat up. "Why, Touda? Why a brothel? Haven't I always been there for Hisoka? Why not me?" His voice reached a higher and higher register as he demanded answers. Touda winced.

"Why don't you quit whining and ask him?" he replied. Tsuzuki looked at the snake who sat cross legged and was piggling pansies. Tsuzuki raised an eyebrow and eyed the god who shrugged idly.

"You don't say anyhing and I won't either." His hand left the flowers and he became rigid as Tsuzuki felt another presence approaching. In a moment, Suzaku appeared, her long dark hair flowing behind her, almost alive. In her hand was her sword. She was tense. He knew that she did not trust Touda, especially after Kyoto. That was why after he was feeling better he had come here to provide some damage control.

Too bad, he couldn't fix his own damaged self. Too bad, he was so terible that Hisoka would rather go to a brothel than to him. He clenched his fists; Kami, why_ was_ he still alive? Hadn't he cared for the boy? He had been there, every moment, coaxing Hisoka out of his constructed walls, out of his hatred. And still the boy found comfort in the arms of another, a woman, a man, it didn't matter, howcoulditmatterwhenallitmeantwsthatHisokawasnothis?

His thoughts came faster and faster until he let out a yelp and flung himself into Nee-san's arms. She dropped her sword; she and Touda had been too busy sniping at each other to notice that Tsuzuki was falling apart again. She wrapped her arms tightly around her master. Touda turned respectfully away while Suzaku coddled Tsuzuki, cooned to him, sang softly and held him tight. Touda tentatively touched Tsuzuki's shoulder before retreating to just watch as Tsuzuki sobbed into her chest.

The three stayed that way until the night became dawn in GenSouKai.

* * *

"I told you." Tatsumi's very presence in Konoe's office spoke volumes. In particular, it seemed to repeat "I told you so, I told you so" in tune to a metronome. Methodical, cold, and repetitive. Like a jackhammar. Although the secretary had no particular expression on his face—in fact, his features had aligned themselves into a model poker face—Konoe felt Tatsumi berating him. What made it worse was that he agreed with him. And what frustrated him was that he had no idea what Muraki did, but that whatever had happened, involved speaking.

No, what had happened was much worse. Muraki and the JuOhCho employees had exchanged words. Those indefinite marks, those simple terms which were used everyday in speech, in scribbling on a Post-it note. Every moment of every day. Yet whatever words Muraki had spoken had created a rift between Tsuzuki and Hisoka which no one understood or knew how to repair.

"Are you sending them back?" Tatsumi's voice, like his face, communicated no particular emotion. But Konoe could hear the icy cold surface, biting, freezing, underneath. A silent condemnation. A sunny day over a frozen wasteland.

"Yes," he replied. Tatsumi froze.

"Why?"

"Because you can't coddle them forever."

"I'm not--"

"Aren't you? By keeping them from Muraki, you are trying to make the world fuzzy and pink for them. Hisoka is a survivor."

"But--"

"Yiou have no faith in them.?" Phrased like a question, it was a challenge. Tatsumi did not respond. The only sound were those coming from the bullpen; at this moment, it was the photocopies and the soft mumble of Wakaba-chan cursing the slow machine. Tatsumi made a note to get the copier looked at.

"I don't want another Kyoto incident." Tatsumi finally replied. Konoe smiled thinly, never showing teeth.

"I don't either. In the interest of solving this case, they will go back. Tomorrow," he added, "so they can recover here. I am also requesting that you check-in with them—physically—at least once a day. If the situation demands it, you may step in and assit. You, however, may not go after Muraki directly." The compromise seemed agreeable to Tatsumi who nodded and left without a word, refusing to give voice to his thoughts.

Words. Again. Konoe decided to be silent the rest of the day. He stared blankly at his desk and listened to the whir and slight screech of the photocopier.

* * *

When Hisoka arrived at the office, the first thing he noticed was Tsuzuki's absence. He quickly looked at the board, to see if Tsuzuki had written his location, and saw nothing but a blank line by his partner's name. Nothing to tell his worried partner where he was. Hisoka growled quietly. 

_How can I explain visiting KoKakuRou if I can't find him! Baka!_ Not sure why Tsuzuki was the idiot in this case, Hisoka stalked off, glowering. He paused in mid-stride.

_Wait—how exactly did Muraki know I was with Oriya? Did Oriya tell him?_ Hisoka thought back to his second visit. The pair were sitting on the steps, drinking tea informally. Hisoka was staring at the sakura tree, just budding. Oriya had noticed Hisoka's eyes were glued to the pink bufs. He knew only the basics; that Muraki had taken the young boy in a flurry of petals. He remembed Muraki toying with a petal one night and chuckling softly, stroking the bud casually.

"Hey Bon," Oriya said. Hisoka glanced at him. "Have you ever considfered what I want in return for these little sessions?" Hisoka's eyes widened before narrowing. He took in Oriya's face, cool, and his body, his shoulder leaning in slightly against the door. There wasn't a predatory look about him.

"My enjoyable company," Hisoka replied wryly. Oriya almost grinned before lighting his pipe.

"You are very pretty," he began off-handedly. Hisoka, who had turned back to look at the tree, snapped back to face the modern day samurai. Oriya noticed the sudden movement, the boy stiffening, his fingers tightening around the cup so that his veins popped out. He blew out a puff of smoke and tilted his head back, resting it on the wooden doorframe. He closed his eyes.

"Some of my clients request a boy or two." Hisoka's hand grew whiter. "I have one boy, already, to satisfy them, but another one—a pretty one—to entertain occasionally is desirable." The cup hitting the stones shattered the slience. Hisoka stood up jerkily.

"I will not sleep with your clients," Hisoka sneered, putting more vehemence in the word client than Oriya thought possible. The brothel owner looked at the boy through slitted eyes.

"Nor do I want you to. I figure Kazutaka damaged you enough." The comment, spoken casually, communicted to Hisoka that Oriya knew more than he wanted him to. He clenched his fists. The first name spoke to the familarity between the two.

"All I ask is if you would grace a client with you pretty face and 'enjoyable company' for an hour or two. One visit for one sparring session. Quid pro quo." Oriya chuckled softly; there was a demanding note in his expression.

Hisoka became a study of stillness. Through his barely opened eyes, hidden behind stray strands of hair , Oriya watched the boy, always a boy, no matter how many years he lived as dead. The boy, in his perfect stillness, resembled the cadaver his physical body was. He was white, his hands tight to his sides, his face as calm as a still pond. His eyes stared glossily at semingly nothing.

Oriya accostumed to his own silences, waited quietly, the only sound him exhaling the cedar smelling smoke. The chilly spring night hinted at warmth in that stillness.

"You have to make a promise," Hisoka finally said in a voice so low Oriya wasn't quite sure he had spoken.

"Promise what?"

"To never speak about what happens here. To anyone. Ever." Oriya sat up and looked at the boy who remained as still as the night. The only difference was his accusing eyes. Oriya nodded. Hisoka's eyes narrowed.

"I want to hear you say it."

"My word that I will not speak about our sessions, in or out of the courtyard."

Hisoka nodded and relaxed.

Sure that he had remembered that night right, Hisoka's hand clenched and unclenched reflexively, in prepartion for a fight. Oriya gave his word. If Muraki knew, the bond had been broken. Whirling around, he raced out of the office.

A moment later, he was running up the street to KoKakuRou. Throwing a door open, he ignored the startled woman cleaning the floors, and dashed into the courtyard. Sitting calmly on the steps, a pipe in mouth, an account book in the other was Oriya. He was going over figures from last night. Next to him was a laptop. Pausing for a moment to notice the inconguency of technology in such a carefully constructed home, Hisoka growled.

Oriya was alone. As in, without Muraki.

The man regarded Hisoka with what the boy would call a cautious gaze.

"May I help you?" he greeted courteously. Hisoka snarled.

"You broke your bond!" he yelled. Oriya pulled the pipe out of his mouth and casually pushed his hiar out of his face.

"That's a heavy accusation. What's your evidence?" Alarmed—or perhaps thrown off—by Oriya's calm manner, Hisoka ground his teeth.

"Muraki knew I visited you and that I sat in the tea rooms." Oriya started, his pipe slipping from his fingers and hitting the stone walkway.

"How is that possible if he's dead?"he asked, keeping his voice under control.

"According to your statement, it isn't possible because I'm dead. But my presence here would prove otherwise." Across the courtyard, a door slid open. Leaning against the wall, half naked, with an unlit cigarette sitting in the corner of his mouth, was Muraki who smiled at Oriya. His low, silk textured voice, startled Oriya and Hisoka who was glaring at Muraki but was being pointedly ignored.

"There is a traitor in my house," Oriya stated. Muraki smirked and lit his cigarette, flinging the used match onto the ground. Oriya raised an eyebrow. When did Muraki become so callous?

"More than one,you should assume," Muraki said.

"I should have known when that boy appeared soon after you left."

"Ah yes, Tojo. He has been helpful in more than one way." Hisoka met Tojo once. The tall boy, with firm shoulders and short midnight black hair, was the only male Oriya kept. Tojo wasn't a pretty boy but he screamed uke so loudly that even Hisoka could pick it up. Tojo was quiet, respectful, and demure, but still completely sexual. He could make brushing aside a piece of stray hair enticing, a suggestion.

Tojo emerged from the room that Muraki had. He had a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, but his bare legs stuck out underneath. Hisoka shot Oriya a look who blinked rapidly but then pulled in his pipe. Hisoka could see his muscles moving—he was biting the stem.

Hisoka wanted nothing more than to blast Muraki into nothing. But he could see this wasn't his place. Whatever was going to happen was between Muraki and Oriya. Hisoka closed his eyes. He could feel the hatred and jealousy coming from Oriya in waves. Underneath them was a sad note, like the lost whistling of a flute in a flurry of drum beats. Regret, maybe.

"I'm sorry." Hisoka said abruptly, ending the staring contest. Oriya shot a look at him and leaned back, graceful again. He lost his jerkiness. Muraki looked at Hisoka for the first time.

"The boy speaks. Tell me, Oriya, what does he do for you that I can't?" Muraki murmured. Oriya lookd at the older man while Hisoka flamed red. For a moment, all three men glared at each other, unwilling to take a step forward, unwilling to answer a question. Tojo shifted, uncomfortably.

Hisoka waited for Muraki to speak.

* * *

_A bit of a difficult ending. For my reviewers: Thank you so much! Any bit of love is totally cherished. :tosses out candy: all guranteed to rot your teeth. And here's some for the silent readers :more candy:_

_ I hope I got this one right.  
_


	6. Ch 6: Despardo

Disclaimer: Yami No Matsuei is the property of Matsushita Yoko. I own nothing but Tojo, of whom I will take immense care.

Quote is from Moby Dick; or The Whale by Herman Melville. I know. It looks big and scary but once you get into it, it's a great book. Trust me; although I am one of the biggest nerds I know so maybe not.

Spoilers: None. Full Summary at the beginning. Anime only. Post Kyoto.

Now that business is over--thank you all for the your reviews::tosses out gift baskets: full of fruit, candy, and popcorn. Again, thank you for your considerate reviews. I've put detailed responses at the end of the story.Now this chapter is a long one--possibly why it opens up with a quote from Melville. It's also sorta sad and depressing and terrifying. There are hints at non-consensual sex (it is Muraki, people), but nothing really graphic. Also, minor swearing.

I also had this chapter read by someone not me, so hopefully, I caught all the spelling errors.  
Now onto the story! And, again, thank you for reading.

* * *

"Now then, thought I, unconsciously rolling up the sleeves of my frock, here goes for a cool, collected dive at death and destruction, and the devil fetch the hindmost."--Melville

The silence in the courtyard was so overbearing Hisoka thought that his ears had been stuffed with cotton. There was nothing, not a whisper, not a stir in the air. The night had become sticky—or perhaps he was sweating more than he imagined. Suddenly, Muraki chuckled and ran an adoring finger down the side of Tojo's face, tracing his cheek.

Oriya wanted to feel his heart skip a beat to let him know that some part of him was still deeply attached to something in the world. But he only stopped breathing for a moment. Again, like every time Muraki taunted him, he felt as if he were falling into a bright blue space where the thin air and foggy silence rendered the world untouchable, ungraspable and unreal, and where everything was frozen except for that sudden burst of flame inside that reminded him that he still breathed, that he still existed in this world and not the next.

At that moment—the moment when the tip of Muraki's finger curved around Tojo's chin—Oriya knew what he was: never the first cup of sake, which the parched throat receives eagerly and gratefully; not the second which affirms the pleasure of the first; not the third which makes the world a beautiful and blurred place; but the fourth, the one drunk because it doesn't make a difference so why the hell not?

"Tell me Hisoka—why do you still chase me?"Muraki murmured into the heavy night. Hisoka glared at the older man.

"Tell me, Muraki, why won't you leave me alone?" he countered, his tone unaffected. But the growl underneath was there: Push me and I'll push right back.

"Perhaps I can not resist such a prize."

"Perhaps you need to find other ways to get off." The tart reply, which Hisoka almost regretted, amused Muraki who merely raised an eyebrow and chuckled again. Hisoka shivered; how could he make his laugh feel like a velvet rub against the spine?

"I think I have several alternative options. At this moment, however, you are here and I am here, so why should I turn my attention elsewhere?"

"You know," Hisoka said impatiently, "I'm not going to be a willing participant in this yaoi drama. Say something relevant or get the hell out. If you won't leave, I'll escort you out."

"Yes, but you never were a willing participant, were you?" Muraki's silver eye glinted in the lamplight. Hisoka ground his teeth but said nothing else. He refused to rise to Muraki's challenge, to start yelling, or to rush impatiently at the man.

But doing nothing infuriated the teenager. He noticed Oriya was doing nothing either but twirling the sword between his fingers, a lost look out of place on his strong face.

"I'm tired of this game. What do you want?" Hisoka finally said, keeping his voice even.

"What is mine."

"Which is..." Muraki gave no reply but a hungry look in Oriya's direction who did not seem to notice. Raising an eyebrow, Hisoka looked closely at Muraki but, rather than figuring out what was going on with the doctor, he became distracted by Tojo.

There was something off about the boy who normally glowed with light, with that slight scent of musk, of contentment—he was never silent. Tonight, Tojo's mouth seemed fused shut and he seemed to never leave Muraki's side. He also appeared to be glowing but unearthly and coldly with a strange light that Hisoka could only identify with the copper taste of blood.

"Tojo—why so quiet?" he asked softly. The taller boy glanced at him and Hisoka saw something that he never saw before in Tojo's eyes—fear. Hisoka opened his mind and reached out for the boy. Stomach churning fear, mixed with pain, with a desire to flee, with that sick smell of sakura blossoms made present as his face was shoved in the ground, the cool sliminess of the spring earth, darkness, fear, screaming—all tumbling in Hisoka's mind.

With a startled cry, he jerked backwards—and into Muraki's arms which tightened around him.

"It seems you've discovered my little Tojo's secret. Do you want to know, doll,"--here his voice became a rough whisper, thickened by excitement, "what it feels like to be stuffed with life? And with love? Do you want to know?" Hisoka struggled against Muraki's iron grip, raising up a foot and jamming it down on Muraki's, whose grip tightened but whose yelp rang in Hisoka's head.

Again, he jammed his foot down before jerking forward. Startled by the sudden movements, Muaki's arms loosened. Squirming, Hisoka dropped down to his knees and leaned to his side, using his arms to support him and blindly threw out a kick which connected solidly with Muraki's thigh. Grunting, Muraki took an unsteady step back and Hisoka used that moment to stand up and throw out a fist at Muraki who was trying to grab the boy again. His tiny but furious fist met Muraki's jaw with a crack, which stung his knuckles but caused Muraki to take another step back.

Hisoka advanced, swinging his fists. A sick sort of pleasure filled him as he watched another fist land on Muraki's mouth, causing blood to spill out. But, so focused on his victory, he did not see Muraki's arm shoot out and grab his arm. Twisting it around suddenly, Muraki dodged Hisoka's response—another fist—before twirling the boy around and twisting the arm harder. Hisoka gasped. Hisoka was jerked upwards and a hand shoved itself into his lower back, forcing him to stand on his toes, completely unbalanced, or risk breaking his arm.

Hisoka tried not to yell out but the biting fiery pain in his arm ran up to his shoulder. He merely grunted; he'd be damned to give Muraki any satisfaction.

_Oriya_, he thought, wondering where the dark haired man was. He quickly scanned the courtyard. Oriya was nowhere to be found. _What the? _

Then--

"If you move, I will slit your throat. And don't think I can't live with the nightmares." Oriya's steady tenor cut through Hisoka's pain. He turned his head as much as he could. Oriya stood by Muraki, a katana on his pulse point, digging in, a thin trickle of blood making the doctor's bare chest sticky.

"Now, let the boy go." Hisoka yelped as Muraki tightened his grip in response. His mocking laugh slid down Oriya's blade and struck Oriya like a slap—a stinging backhand slap to remind him who was in charge here—who could actually live with the nightmares.

Oriya replied by digging the katana in deeper. Muraki groaned and let go of Hisoka, who fell to the ground on his knees. The hardness of the walkway caused his knees to groan and pulse throbbingly as he rose up, wrapped his arm around his body to cradle it, and staggered to a tree. He leaned against the trunk and tried to catch his breath. He kept one eye on Muraki and Oriya and one on Tojo, who seemed frozen in time, a paused still in a movie.

Hisoka could feel Muraki's glee and his almost rush of almost desire and Oriya's desperateness, like a man drawing in a few gasps of air before sinking to the bottom of a raging sea. Hisoka drew in his breath quickly and wished Tsuzuki was here. What was he going to do next? Muraki seemed to enjoy being at Oriya's mercy too much for comfort.

"Oriya—did you want to be stuffed with life?"

"Why do you think I won't harm you?"

"And why do you think I won't retaliate?" Muraki closed his eyes and muttered a few words. Oriya's sword seemed to glow a molten gray. Hisoka felt fear coursing underneath the desparateness. He knew Muraki would retaliate—and he counted on it. Hisoka stood up straight, letting go of his arm. He watched in horror as the sword turned red before becoming a pure white hot. Flames began to lick at the carved wooden handle. The wound at Muraki's neck cauterized and the doctor moved away, tracing his new scar delicately, like a man would his lover. With a yelp, Oriya dropped the sword.

The night seemed to become heavier; Hisoka felt as if he were being smothered by a heavy silk kimono. He couldn't breathe. He turned to look at Tojo and heard Oriya grunt. Hisoka whipped his head around; Muraki was drawing a knife out of Oriya's body.

"What makes you think, my darling, that I don't live with my nightmares everyday?" Blood spattered the walkway. Hisoka felt bile rising up in his throat. _I gotta get out of here, I've gotta get Oriya out of here and I've got to do something about Tojo_. Taking a deep breath—struggling against the heavy air—Hisoka pulled a fuda out of his pocket. Muraki looked over at the boy and raised a hand casually, as if waving at a friend.

Out of nowhere, a white dragon appeared. Hisoka groaned in frustration but flung the fuda at the dragon as he ran toward Tojo. He hoped Oriya could take care of himself while he grabbed the boy. The fuda, however, did nothing to the dragon, who shook off the explosion like a lion ignores the bite of an ant. As he ran across the courtyard, Hisoka was struck by the dragon; he went flying into Tojo; he heard his shoulder snap as he slammed into the boy and they tumbled to the ground. The dragon circled overhead and shot flames at the boy who quickly threw up a protective barrier. Muraki's laugh threaded through his fear. The dragon circled once more and vanished.

Ignoring his pain, Hisoka stood up and gazed across the burning courtyard. The sakura tree was on fire, dropping embers onto the roof of KoKakuRou. He watched Muraki grab Oriya by the collar. "What makes you think you aren't my nightmare?"Oriya said. The doctor replied by flinging Oriya across the courtyard. The samurai hit the wall with a thud and a crack as his head flung back. He slumped to the ground, a shapeless lump.

Hisoka knew he was alone. He pulled out another fuda and tried performing a spell but he could feel the pressing weight of Muraki's lion gaze. He couldn't seem to pronounce the words; his tongue thickened in his mouth; he knew the taste of blood.

Turning, he looked at Tojo who was now naked. His blanket was crumpled on the floor. Hisoka stopped the spell and his mouth dropped open. Blood trickled out and onto his chin before dribbling to his shirt.

Tojo was covered in red glowing scars, so much like his own. They were different from Hisoka's, which read for death. Tojo's read for life.

"You are the vessel for the missing souls," Hisoka stated. No wonder Muraki kept muttering about life. Unaware that Muraki was striding toward him, Hisoka held out his hand. Tojo gently touched the blonde's fingertips with his own.

Hisoka became burdened with lives; the souls of each woman screamed at him. Muraki, clever Muraki, had taken Tojo's life—put it in that vial he had paraded before Tsuzuki _(too careless! _Hisoka's mind screamed)--and had made Tojo the container for the lives of murdered women. Tojo, a boy radiant with life, became embittered and broken from carrying the agony of each woman's death. He relived the moment a hundred times a day. His adoration of Muraki, his belief in the sensei's skilled hands, turned into a dissembling horror. He knew how skilled those hands were in many ways.

Every third night, Muraki appeared. He would strip an increasingly frantic Tojo of clothes and shove the boy on to the bed. Then he would stuff him with a new soul, cutting caresses, and fill him with what he knew as love. Leaving Tojo broken, bruised and lost.

Hisoka was unaware of the tears coursing down his face until the salt stung his broken lips. He was unaware of his world until cold fingers grasped his chin and tilted his face upwards.

"Do you know now, doll, what it means to be full of life?" Muraki's curving lips filled his view. He shuddered and tried vainly to escape, only to discover the overwhelming tiredness, the pain in his arm becoming heavy as it succumbed to the pain in his heart, the sudden shooting stickiness in his abdomen.

"How many times must you do this?"Hisoka spat out, flecking blood on Muraki's chest, as he watched the knife slid out of his side.

"As many times as I want. You forget Kurosaki—we succumb to desire with finesse, even with calm." Hisoka felt Muraki's studied gaze on him. "Tell me, how many times as Tsuzuki asked and you said no? Tell me, will he come this time for the boy he thinks no better than a whore?"

Hisoka growled and struggled, slapping the doctor's face as he tried to pull away. But the pain dragged into down to the ground and into darkness. The last thing he saw was the curse covered body of a dead boy pretending to be alive.

* * *

_I'm awful, aren't I? And before you ask, I love Oriya. I think he is amazing. I'm terrible.  
I hope you enjoyed this chapter. It is the first time I've ever written an action sequence so any tips are gratefully welcomed. The succumb to desire is an acknowledgment to J.L. Austin's essay "A Plea for Excuses." Again, thank you for reading._

_Rogue Kyne: Thank you for being my most consistent reviewer. I hope you enjoyed this chapter and this Hisoka is a bit more kick-ass. I totally agree with you about Hisoka; people pat him on the head and tell him how cute he is but he's tough. _

_Mistic Fox, JungleBunny, Lunarkitty14: I hope this chapter lives up to your standards and that you enjoyed it. Thank you for your reviews. :)_

_Jenny: My friend just happened to be here this weekend and read over the chapter for me, but she was confused (she doesn't really know Yami) so don't be surprised if you get something in your inbox from me. Thank you so much for your generous offer._

_MoonlitKenshin: You're welcome. I hope you like the gift basket._

_A totally hooked reader: Wow. :blushes: Thanks for you review. The advice about VPs was totally helpful, esp. in this chapter, which was almost better served, I think, by staying in Hisoka's head. He is the one around whom this story revolves and he is conversing with his tormentor. I'm working on the next chapter and I keep switching from VPs, but I hear your voice in the back of my mind which means I am thinking earnestly about your advice. I hope you enjoyed this chapter. _

_ You guys all rock! And for my silent readers, don't forget your gift baskets! _


	7. Ch 7: Rage

Apply standard disclaimer here (where? here).

So, it's been a long time since I saw you guys(hello to all (even to the readers in the shadows)). Between school and work, I haven't had a moment to sit down and write. That's actually not true. This is the third re-write of the chapter; I'm sorry to say it is not a very good chapter (why is it here? Oh right--the end). I also need information on Oriya (whatever can be dug up; from my understanding, he appears briefly in the manga as well). Is his first name Oriya? Or is that his last? Any info on Oriya is most welcome (if you want to email me, the address is in the profile).

Quote is from Ani Difranco's "Adam and Eve" from the album "Dilate." Used without permission.

Constructive criticism is wanted and welcome.

* * *

"My love is ugly. No, really, you'd be amazed."--Ani DiFranco

Hisoka's name on the board said: "Lunch." Tsuzuki debated going to partner's apartment and allowed himself to imagine what his arrival would do, what it would bring. He would burst in, the door would ring loudly against the wall, and swing back, but his hand would stop its movement. Hisoka's head would shoot up, chopsticks halfway to his mouth. Tsuzuki would stride forward purposefully, and carefully take the chopsticks from Hisoka while pulling out a chair with his other hand. He would sit down, take Hisoka's chin gently in his hand, and ask him a simple question. Hisoka would apologize, Tsuzuki would soothe, gentle murmurs would fill the kitchen, Hisoka would get up, slide into the older man's lap and wrap his arms around him. The only witness would be the sun, filling the room with a warm buttery light.

A corner of Tsuzuki's mouth lifted as he imagined Hisoka crawling into his arms, the feel of his corn silk soft hair twined about his fingers. But the memory of Hisoka's blushes at Muraki's accusation turned that half smile into a sneer and spoiled that warm feeling—made it cloying sweet like a too ripe peach.

_Why choose strange men over me?_, he thought, feeling his heart sink until he felt hollow and numb. Only one man would know the answer—that is, one man other than Hisoka. Turning abruptly, Tsuzuki left the office without saying goodbye and leaving the board blank. Tatsumi—watching carefully from his station by the squeaky copy machine—walked over and printed neatly "on a case" next to Tsuzuki and Hisoka's names. At least now, they would be both accounted for, something which the board was supposed to encourage the detectives to do.

The streets of Kyoto were still noisy at ten at night, although filled with the sounds of people either heading home. As he feet pointed him toward KoKakuRou, women and men slid past him, worried or content looks on their faces, arms full of groceries, books, or each other as a couple whispered goodbye. The actual words were stolen away but the rising wind which shook the trees and caused them to drop their leaves in a flurry of color. Tsuzuki shivered; winter was coming. This night, the sky seemed deep and dark, the stars choosing not to make themselves known.

But as Tsuzuki neared KoKakuRou, he noticed flames reaching up, licking at the building, and snapping loudly. Without thinking, he intercepted a woman who was running out, screaming.

"Is there a blonde haired boy inside?" he demanded, surprised at how harsh his voice sounded.

"Hai, Kurosaki-kun is inside! He is with Oriya-san!" she replied hurriedly. Tsuzuki was briefly pained at the familiar sounding Kurosaki-kun; Muraki's claims were true.

"Call the fire department," he said numbly. She replied that it was on the way. Dimly, he heard the sirens and nodded his thanks to the woman. He gave her a gentle shove away and watched her run to the safety of her companions.

He turned and jogged toward the building, wishing for his coat. He threw up one arm over his mouth to prevent him from inhaling too much smoke. He stepped over a fallen beam and ducked as wires sparked overheard. He slid into the courtyard and breathed in fresher air. Most of KoKakuRou was not touched, but he saw the fire creeping steadily over the roof.

"Tsuzuki-san—you braved the fire to rescue me?" Tsuzuki started at the voice and turned around. To his left stood Muraki, a cigarette hanging carelessly out of his mouth, his bare chest covered in blood. Tsuzuki stared in disgust at this dirty, vulgar version of Muraki.

"Where's Hisoka?" he demanded. Muraki inhaled deeply before flickering the cigarette onto the ground and nodding at the closed door behind him.

"I'm sorry, my dear Tsuzuki, but the boy wore out his welcome." He pushed open the door and revealed Hisoka and a dark haired man hanging from the ceiling, arms extended over their heads, revealing the cuts and dried blood on their torsos. Chained, bound, and bleeding. Hisoka's scars glowed brightly, rivaling the fire which licked at the rafter supporting the pair.

Tsuzuki growled. He was tired of being beat by this man, tired of being chased, tired of being watched, tired of it all. A part of him—the part that was sustained by the faith in Hisoka's demand to live for him—died. The embers of a fading fire flickered once before sinking below the ashes. Tsuzuki shivered; the cold within was so familiar now. He knew it. He embraced it.

At least his loneliness never left him for another man. Beneath that loneliness, rolling like a swollen sea, was that dark and sharp anger. Tsuzuki opened the floodgate. That ever present rage rushed to fill the opening and surrounded him with his cold, furious, lashing, familiar anger. He held it close to him as his only true companion. He turned to look at Muraki who did not, but should have, recoil at the boiling anger barely contained in the shorter man.

Muraki laughed loudly. He slid on a shirt and quickly buttoned it up.

"Now that you have your boy, Tsuzuki-san, I will take what is mine and leave you. But don't worry—I will return soon." His taunting voice had no effect; Tszuki's rage swallowed it like a stone tossed into the river. He calmly pulled out a fuda and flung it at the chains supporting the two men which snapped and dropped them roughly on the ground.

Tsuzuki then directed his anger toward Muraki. Neither man noticed the shadows rising up beneath their feet to support the limp form of Hisoka who shuddered and drew in a short, rasping breath. Ragged. Sharp. The shadows unwrapped the chains, withdrew the razors which had been inserted into his sides, and tenderly wrapped an obi around him.

Hisoka stood on his own and turned bleary, reddened eyes toward Tsuzuki who held a fuda straight up between his fingers. Speaking clearly, he flung the paper in the air, binding Muraki in a purple light. Grinning, Muraki shouted a command, and shattered the binding spell.

"You can not bind me, Tsuzuki-san. I go where I please, I speak what I please, and I'll do as I please," Muraki cried into the night. The wind had picked up. A storm was moving in. the darkening night had become blacker than Touda's flame—a flame which was rising again around Muraki.

"No!" Hisoka screamed. He knew Touda all too well. He yelled again but the loud rustle of leaves ripped away his voice. His shoulders jerked as ashes began to settle around him, burning him. Thinking quickly, he flung a kimono over the man next to him. All he could hear were the sounds of leaves, the ragged breathing of his friend, a distant rumble of thunder. The sound of fire overwhelmed it all. Dropping his shields, he wound himself into Tsuzuki.

And he knew hate.

Hate is not right. This was too consuming, too free flowing.

Hisoka tasted pure, blind, salty rage.

It engulfed him in pounding waves. He could not get his footing. He wanted to throw a line to Tsuzuki, to draw him in, but who was going to save him?

_I didn't live for him. I was supposed to live for him_, he thought. Hisoka suddenly knew what he had demanded on Tsuzuki that night. He had demanded a love. He had demanded love and protection.

But he had also promised reciprocation.

He didn't return.

As Tsuzuki's darkness swallowed him whole, as Hisoka dropped to his knees, he tried to imagine loving Tsuzuki. He shuddered in fear. He was drowning in hate. He called out Tsuzuki's name right before the smoke and the sea claimed him.

* * *

_What did you think? It's a bit off, a treading of ground we've gone into before. But I think the last part, about Hisoka's realization is important. Gimme a ring, a line, to let me know what you think. To all of you who have reviewed--have some popcorn balls. They are quite good (and loaded with sugar)._

_Junglebunny: Thank you for your review. I hope you enjoyed this chapter. The next chapter is devoted to Oriya (which is why I need some info.) I do so love Oriya. Did Tsuzuki kick Muraki's #$# enough for you?  
_

_Jennamarie: Thank you. I'm glad to hear your voice. __I hope this Muraki was good to you although I see Muraki here as less evil and more like losing his mind. (hint maybe?). Thank you!_

_Lunarkitty14: Thanks. :P I had to end it there! It's a cliffhanger! And I'm totally addicted to them. What did you think of this one? Is it what you expected it to be?_

_ Rogue Kyne: Okay, so what did you think? I know you see Hisoka in the same light I do and I'm entirely happy with the fact that I had him pass out again, but you will see, I promise, how he rescues Tsuzuki this night. _

_Reader: Thank you again for your review. I've only read bits of the manga, but I really wish there was more on Oriya out there. How can you occupy both roles of samurai and brothel owner at the same time (if brothel owner is the right word)? Very difficult to imagine._

_And a thank you and happy holidays to all the rest of my readers. I'll try to squeeze in one more chapter before the new year.  
_


	8. Ch 8: Several Mornings After

Disclaimer: Yami No Matsuei is the property of Matsushita Yoko. I manipulate characters and plotlines without permission and not for profit.

This chapter is short but I wanted to devote it to Oriya (my darling). Please don't hate me after you read it. The next chapter is longer and begins to pull things to together (finally!). I see maybe five more chapters left until the end. Depends on the final scene. I can't write confrontations and fight scenes so any advice is welcome and wanted. I noticed the reply sign on the review pages. Not sure if anyone actually reads those pages, I'm putting replies at the bottom again. If you prefer it in the reviews page, please let me know.

A special thanks to for the translations of the Kyoto arc. I know, I know. Supposed to read it with manga. I cheated. Ooops. And, again, thank you for reading. (Quote from _Terrors and Experts_ (31); anyone else think this is me reading Yami through this book?)

* * *

"Why would a person want to understand someone, or even cure them, rather than have sex with them?"--Adam Phillips 

"Dr. Sakumi—paging Dr. Sakumi. You are wanted in Delivery." The loud insistent voice called Oriya from the warmth in which he was floating. He slowly opened his eyes.

Hard fluorescent lights sent him blinking and reeling into nauseousness. Swallowing hard, he grit his teeth and propped himself up on his elbows. He willed himself to open his eyes, keeping his gaze downward. An army green blanket, his legs underneath, lines crossing his arms. A steady beeping.

_Hospital_, Oriya thought dizzily. He moved each finger, to check to see if they could. He wiggled his toes. He took stock of the IV in one arm, the bandages around his hands, the dull pain in his side.

Oriya began to think clearly. The last thing he remembered was the sneering face of Kazutak and the deep sharp pain in his side before being flung across the courtyard.

KoKakuRou. Hisoka—what happened?

How did he get here? He sat up fully as a nurse waddled into the room. She was short, heavy, with a broad beaming bland face. She smiled at Oriya.

"Awake now, are we?" she greeted in a sharp voice as she pulled out clipboard from the foot of the bed. Oriya weakly smiled. "Don't worry; lunch is coming."

Oriya titled his head and sighed as nausea didn't threaten to overwhelm him. The nurse pulled out a pen and quickly wrote down the numbers on the machinery by his head.

"How long have I been in here?" he asked slowly.

"Two days."

"How did I get here?"

"Oh Muraki-sense admitted you. And he's your doctor. That might make you lucky." Oriya glanced sharply at the nurse who moved toward one of his monitors. One large hip bumped into a tray which wheeled squeakily to the wall. She punched some buttons in short deft movements.

"What does that mean?" She looked at him, wide with surprise. She glanced uneasily around her, opening her lips to speak. The nurse leaned in just as a tall, silver, white shape walked by the window facing the corridor. She jerked back and started writing again as Muraki entered the room, without flourish. He entered the way any other man entered—no flurry of activity, no trailing coat, just a simple, possibly, confident step into—

"Good afternoon, Oriya-san. How are you feeling?" Muraki said. He was all doctor, in simple pair of khaki slacks, an open collar button down shirt and a stethoscope flung casually around his neck. Oriya's jaw dropped. The nurse handed Muraki the clipboard and moved with surprising dexterity out of the room. Oriya would call it fleeing—a movement with which he was familiar.

"Dizzy spells?" the doctor asked, pen poised over paper. Oriya shook his head.

"Nausea?"

"A bit." Muraki scribbled for a moment. Oriya gained his composure and folded his hands together on his lap. If he had learned anything from his years of friendship with Kazutaka, it was that his friend was a natural shape-shifter.

"Your fever has gone down with no sign of infection from your wound. It might be safe to say that you'll be fine, but we'll keep an eye on your concussion." Muraki's voice was cool, soothing, and professional. He grabbed a rolling stool, guided it to Oriya's bedside and sat down. His surprisingly warm hand rested on Oriya's forehead.

"Taking awfully good care of the man you knifed." Oriya kept his voice icy. The warm pressure left his forehead.

"Oriya, you forget I'm a surgeon. Do you imagine that I stab so carelessly—if stab is the right word?"

"So when you stuck a knife in my belly, you managed not tear anything apart." He turned away to face out the window, to the other wing of the hospital.

"I stabbed you, but not far enough to pierce gastro-intestinal walls."

"But you gave me a concussion." Muraki looked up from the clipboard. Oriya's heart began to beat rapidly as he stared into the expressionless but flawless face. But he quickly shut down any loving thoughts. _Remember Oriya—this man is not in love with you. _

"That, my friend, was your fault. You've studied aikido. I assumed you knew how to keep your neck rigid." Oriya blinked. True, he knew how to fall, but he never imagined that Muraki planned his violence with care.

_Liar_. No, he knew. He cleaned up enough of his friend's problems to know that every move was planned. He looked at Muraki, who was writing on the paper, a mess of numbers, a lazy loopy scrawl of narrative. He felt himself relaxing in his presence. That was Muraki's gift; an ability to calm people even when he had a knife pressed to their throat.

"Why did you attack me?"

"Why did _you_ threaten me?" Muraki's long fingers drew back his collar, revealing a short, fat, shiny scar. It looked deep and hot, a possessive mark.

"Hisoka..."the name fell from Oriya's lips as he sighed. He looked into Muraki's eye which regarded him with what he would call calculation.

"Yes, that boy, who continuously falls into my path." Muraki's voice became hard and bitter. Oriya tasted that familiar sticky emotion and swallowed hard.

"Why don't you leave him alone?" You've ruined him," Oriya demanded, pushing past a terrified knowing that he was treading into dangerous territory.

"I'm not interested in him."

"Then what are you interested in?" Silence. Oriya listened to his heart beep courtesy of Tokyo General's equipment. Outside, the intercom clicked on and the same nasal voice declared its demands. It clicked off and still Oriya heard his heart beep steadily. Finally—

"I'm interested in Tsuzuki. Not for sex—gods know I can get that whenever and wherever—and if I read one more article that claims that neuroses comes from sexual trauma during infancy—as if being psychotic is always related to sex—do you hear the doctor in me, Oriya?--what I want from Tsuzuki is an answer to a question." Oriya raised an eyebrow. Muraki never explained this much to anyone at any one time, if ever, but he was enjoying this new, khaki-clad man who seemed vulnerable. He remembered the younger Kazutaka, one more like this one seated beside him now; he seemed a breathing human and not a cardboard cutout villain. But he was not fool enough to think that Muraki had changed, was as truly sensitive as he appeared—he was too prone to mood swings, to madness, melancholia.

"What's the question?"

"To be or not to be." Muraki smiled and Oriya inwardly groaned. Already—gone was the open, charismatic doctor and before him was the madman—mad only because the ends _always_ justified the means.

"News for you, Oriya," Muraki stood up as a nurse walked into the room, carrying a tray. She placed it on the bed table and wheeled it toward Oriya, wincing as it squeaked. She took off the tray top. Neither man looked at the food.

"KoKakuRou burned down that night. Only the living quarters remain standing." Oriya sat up straighter. Muraki chuckled and the nurse, with a confused look on her face, scuttled out into the safety of the hallway.

"Take away everything I have, why don't you? Did Hisoka make it out alive?" Oriya demanded. He couldn't keep the bitterness out of his voice. Muraki slid the clipboard back into its slot.

"I'll be back tomorrow morning to see if you are ready to be released. If you need any medication, just page the nurse," he said, placing the pen in his front pocket. He walked toward the door and paused, one hand on the frame. The sunlight glinted off his frames.

"My dear Oriya, I haven't taken everything from you. You still have me." With a careless laugh, he exited the room. Oriya remained alone and staring at the wiggling mass of green jello which began melting in the warm sunlit room.

* * *

_Rogue Kyne--Just you wait. That's all I have to say.  
_

_PSYM--Glad you are enjoying the story. :) And thank you for reviewing. I wonder what you will think of Muraki in the next chapter.  
_

_Kudatsuo-chan: Is this soon enough for you? I'm glad you are enjoying it and thank you oodles for your review.  
_

_Yami Chikara: Thanks for your review. It gets better for Tsuzuki (well, I think. I hope you think so too).  
_

_Jennamarie: Ah, yes. Tatsumi :grins.: I can't say. Thanks for the review.  
_

_Junglebunny: Did this Oriya work for you? I tried emailing you through but I'm not sure if it worked. I'm glad you like the story so far. Sadly, though, I think this might be the end of the line for Oriya (don' t tell anyone, but I don't have the end quite figured out. I'm too busy writing Watari--oops. Did I give something away?)  
_

_Lunarkitty14: I promise I'll update more! And faster! LOL. Would you call this a cliffhanger?_

And, again, thank you to all the silent readers :tosses out holiday candy: Holidays are so fattening, I swear...


	9. Ch 9: Unravelings

Hello, darlings, all. Sorry about the month wait--a month! Finals, holidays, friends visiting--the stuff that makes up life.Most of this long chapter was written on DayQuil. That stuff can make you delusional. Do not try this at home. In deference to FFNet's new rules, responses to reviews will be on my profile page. But, again, thank you all who read, and commented (much love!), and reminded me that I was burning down national treasures.  
This is where school gets you. Quote from "Texts of Recovery" from _In Quest of the Ordinary p_g. 51 (used without permission).

Standard disclaimer applies. Anime only.  
Summary at chapter one. Spoilers: Post Kyoto Arc.  
Pairings: None yet.

Now, back to that copy machine...

* * *

"The beginning of skepticism is the insinuation of absence, of a line, or limitation, hence the creation of want, or desire; the creation, as I have put it, of the interpretation of metaphysical finitude as intellectual lack."--Stanley Cavell

Screech. Click. Screech. Click.

Tatsumi grimaced as the photocopier began working on a pile of papers he had placed in the tray. Stamp, clunk, stamp, clunk. Time to call the postmortem Xerox man. Tatsumi wondered briefly how Enma chose his shinigami—none of them were actual detectives, except for maybe Terazuma. Certainly not for their manual labor skills. Sadly, there was no postmortem Xerox man, except for maybe Watari but Tatsumi dreaded the results.

As the machine chugged out copies, Tatsumi left its side and headed toward the infirmary which housed three occupants—a comatose Hisoka, a dogged Tsuzuki, and a Tojo who was fated to die, once Watari figured out Muraki's curse. Tatsumi knew the scientist was in his office now, scrambling to read Tojo's markings which, like Hisoka's, were unintelligible.

"Muraki writes curses like a madman—only another madman could read them," Watari had said last night when Tatsumi had stopped by with takeout Chinese. Tatsumi noticed how deep the lines were around the other's eyes. They were not etched, but permanently carved.

"Then you should have no problem deciphering it," Tatsumi replied lightly. Watari cracked a dry smile and grabbed the coffee pot, before chugging from it. Tatsumi's lip curled up in a small sneer. Watari did not fail to notice it and growled deeply as he put down the pot.

"We all have to get our fixes somehow, old man. Even you," he said, turning away from the secretary toward the computer.

Tatsumi stopped before the doorway into the infirmary. Wrapping the welcoming shadows around himself, he peeked around the corner. Tsuzuki sat beside Hisoka, running his hand through Hisoka's hair and crooning softly. In the other bed, Tojo was hooked up to so many machines, Tatsumi wondered where the boy began and the machines ended.

He dreaded entering, but taking a deep breath, he stepped from the shadows and into the light.

"Tsuzuki-san," he began, his deep voice echoing loudly in the silent room. "You need to get some rest."  
"Anything from Watari about 'Soka?" Tsuzuki responded, his hands moving to hold Hisoka's hand. Tatsumi moved forward, trying to cross the mere feet between him and the beds. But he could only take a few steps before stopping, swallowing, and nervously (secretly) wiping his sweaty palms on his pants legs. Tsuzuki always left him unsure, a feeling he never dealt with, not even in the silence of his office, when given the time to ruminate.

When Tatsumi acted on his initiative to go in and help Tsuzuki, he was greeted by the burning tea house, terror from onlookers, and the efficiency of the firemen—he always admired their efficiency. But he did not pause, choosing to head directly to the courtyard where Tsuzuki was calling up Touda. He cried out, marshaling his shadows and covering Hisoka and the boy next to him. He yelled at Tsuzuki and flung darkness at Muraki who was trying to flee. There was only the fire, the yells of the firemen, and his need to get Tsuzuki out of there. This case would not end up like Kyoto of before. Where the hell was the owner? Why was Hisoka not moving? And why was Tsuzuki listening for once?

The flurry of activity did not end when he returned to Meifu. There were wounded to attend to, curses to solve, a murderer to find. Mibu-san was still missing. Tatsumi covered for Tsuzuki and Hisoka with their paperwork and sent out Terazuma and Wakaba to sniff around for Mibu-san. He never paused to reflect, to catch his metaphysical breath, but kept moving.

Until now, when Tsuzuki's question rendered him immobile. All of his concern went nowhere. He could tell Tsuzuki to rest, to eat, to relax, but Tsuzuki would never follow his advice. He would have to force him to lie down, to shove some food down his mouth. He hated force. Once he enjoyed a quiet evening, alone, at Noh theatre. And the time to reflect was welcome.

"It's not your fault," he said finally, clumsily, and internally winced. He hated that phrase. Although it rang true, the phrase never did work with Tsuzuki who sighed, and shrugged, and slumped lower, like he did now.

"It's true," Tatsumi continued, trying to add depth to his hollow voice. "You lead me to KoKakuRou, to Tojo, who could be the key to unlocking Kurosaki-kun's curse. We can save those women trapped in Tojo's body, and perhaps save him. And you sent Muraki fleeing. There have been no murders in the past three days." As he spoke, he paid close attention to Tsuzuki's form. The shinigami said nothing, but sat up a little straighter. Tatsumi swallowed audibly, and walked over to the corner of the room. He sat in the small metal chair and watched Tsuzuki stroke Hisoka's hand. Tsuzuki was silent, but Tatsumi could see the corners of his cheek moving.

He waited.

Watari stared glumly as the monitor. With a defeated sigh, he hit a key and shut a window before leaning back and folding his arms across his chest. The lab hummed loudly with the sounds of another computer searching for a curse, or marks, similar to the ones on Tojo's body.

Secretly, he held no hope. For years, he had tried to discover how Hisoka's curse had precisely worked. Hisoka had sat patiently in the infirmary as Watari scanned the marks, and ran chemically scarred hands over Hisoka's small, frozen frame. As a puzzle, it excited him; because he was Hisoka's friend, he tried to hide his delight at unraveling an enigma.

But then, he had no luck (_except, as a scientist,_ he thought_, I'm not entirely sure if I'm supposed to believe in luck)._ And now, he was faced with an ever imposing demand (or desire) to solve this crime. He could only focus on the symbols, occasionally going into the infirmary to check on Tojo.

He did not worry about Hisoka; like Tsuzuki, they were both physically well. Hisoka was comatose only to protect his mind which had been exposed to Tsuzuki's rage. Rest and isolation would give him the time to heal; unfortunately, Tsuzuki could not be convinced to leave Hisoka's side. Tsuzuki—that was another story altogether. Idly, Watari wished he could publish a case on Asato called "Notes on the Case of an Obsessional Neurotic—The Guilty Man."

Yawning, he stood up and walked toward the infirmary, the palm of one hand rubbing the knot in his thigh. Too much time spent with a laptop. As he rounded the corner, he heard low chuckling.

He saw Tatsumi sitting in a corner chair, one ankle resting on top his opposite knee. Hisoka was sitting up in bed, allowing Tsuzuki to mother him—and making it clear that it was on his terms only as Tsuzuki shoved noodles into his mouth.

"Hey, Bon, fast recovery," Watari greeted as he strode over to the boy's bed. Gently shoving Tsuzuki aside, Watari checked Hisoka's stats. He kept his voice cheerful as he asked questions about how Hisoka was feeling, as he shined a light into the boy's pupils. Hisoka's voice, huskier than usual, responded normally to Watari's question—honest with an edge of sarcasm. Watari smiled and let Tsuzuki back in with more food.

"I can't wait to get some sleep when this baka leaves," Hisoka muttered, his mouth full of kimchee while glaring at his partner who ignored the death stare and hummed contentedly. The older man looked up when he heard Hisoka swallow, only to shove another bit in.

Tojo, however, was still unconscious. Watari ran a quick eye over the machines. Without them, Tojo would have died and all the souls would have been lost. Once he arrived in Meifu, with Tatsumi and Tsuzuki, he had slipped into a coma and hadn't responded to any treatment yet.

Thoughtfully, Watari placed his hand on top of Tojo's forehead and frowned. The boy was an older, much more masculine version of Hisoka. Minase Hijiri was a darker version of the Hisoka; Tojo had a stronger jaw, but still stubborn; the wide eyes, but drawn with lines of age; broader shoulders which tapered to a narrow waist. A swimmer's body—a body Hisoka would have had.

Watari's frown deepened and he pulled back Tojo's collar to stare at Muraki's language.

"You're thinking," Tatsumi said. Watari looked up.

"Usually," he countered.

"Yes, but never hard enough that I can hear you."

"Implying that I don't work for my money?"

"Well, I've been looking into some budget cuts..." Tatsumi let the threat hang as he smiled wryly at his grinning companion. Watari left Tojo's side and listened to the soft grumbling of Hisoka as he crossed the room to lean on the window sill next to the secretary.

"What's on your mind, old man?"

"Only how to get away with cutting your funds and not ending up as a woman." Watari waved a hand.

"Nah, my sex changing formula isn't done yet. You'll probably just end up as a bird, or green, or something." The two men chuckled. For a moment, Watari let himself enjoy the warm room, Tatsumi's company, and the sight of Tsuzuki fawning over Hisoka. He felt his sore muscles easing.

"Amazing how they made up isn't it?" Tatsumi said quietly. Watari raised one delicate brow.

"You think they made up?"

"Look how well they are getting along."

"I think you spend too much time in your office, old man," Watari chuckled. Tatsumi turned to look up at him.

"Why's that?"

"You aren't reading people—or not reading well. Hisoka nearly lost his connection to this world—that is, a sane mind—and we know how much Tsuzuki loves him. He's enjoying a living, breathing, speaking Hisoka. Hisoka is enjoying Tsuzuki's attentions. They are relaxing, but they will have to return to the problems at hand. Both know it." Tatsumi gave Watari a queer look before turning to regard the pair thoughtfully.

"That's the most poetic I've ever heard you be," he finally said. He could not help but notice the guilt tainting the way Tsuzuki spoke to Hisoka, the slight reluctance on Hisoka's part to respond fully to the other man. Watari shrugged without really moving his shoulders.

"Well, everything seems to be in control here," Tatsumi added before standing up and exiting the room.

Watari didn't notice Tatsumi's departure. He was too busy noticing the amazing similarity between Hisoka's markings, visible in the short hospital gown, and Tojo's. Whereas Hisoka's markings dipped down, Tojo's swooped out. On Tojo's chest, if Watari remembered correctly, there was a mirror image of Hisoka's curse Mirror, not as in exact, but as in reverse. Hisoka's curse inversed where left becomes right.

Watari snapped his fingers and stood up straight. He had forgotten the story of the golem—of life and death intertwined, separated by only one letter. One word, one changed order created other word meaning death. Muraki inversed his curse, changing the flow of energy. Death for Hisoka equals life for Tojo. EMC2. Energy equals mass.

"Always the scientist, eh Muraki?" Watari muttered as he fled the room, running toward the library. It made so much sense now. A serial killer retreads old ground—Kyoto, murdered women, a young boy, the call to Tsuzuki. Patterns. First thing you learn in geometry is to recognize patterns. Jack the Ripper never left Whitechapel. Muraki will return to young boys and curses, carving bodies, and making them legible, but only to him and those willing to participate in his system of agreements—that is, those willing to entertain the notion of the body as a writing tablet, of boys as sacrifices to deeper appetites. What did that say for him, Watari, that he could follow Muraki's line of thought? The only thing that didn't fit was Oriya.

Watari burst into the library. The GuShoShin brothers, used to loud interruptions, did not look up. They knew Watari and his excited temperament.

"I need information on Izguro Tojo," he demanded. The elder GuShoShin gestured toward a file.

"We figured you would ask, so we did some digging," he said. Watari grabbed the folder and fled to the safety of his lab.

At least that was the plan. As he turned the corner, a sudden shaking threw him to the ground and knocked the wind out of him. White dust rained down from the ceiling and the windows exploded. He turned away and covered his face with the folder. Coughing, he stood up, placing one arm on the wall to hold him still. The ground bucked underneath him and he dropped to his knees. He crawled toward a door sill, slipping on the dust, grimacing as bits of glass dug into his palms. The ground refused to stop shaking.

_Someone from Chijou has created a helluva rupture into Meifu,_ Watari thought. _And not just anyone._ Swearing, he gripped the door frame and hauled himself upward. The ceiling fell all around him and not just dust, but large chunks of marble and plaster. Deciding to brave the elements, he ran into the hallway, darted around a fallen beam from above.

"Didn't expect an obstacle course today," he coughed and dodged sparking wires from above. His foot slipped and he dropped to one knee. Growling, he jumped up and sprinted toward the infirmary. The shaking was lessening. Over the grumbling, he heard shouting. Speeding up, he jumped over a fallen door and landed at the end of the hallway. Turning, he saw, untouched by a mote of dust, Muraki.

"How the hell did you get here?" he thundered. Again, Muraki had broken through and invaded his infirmary. Twice in one year. Muraki gave him a sideways look.

"A rupture in space and time." He held up a hand casually and stopped whatever Tsuzuki was throwing at him. "Tsuzuki, I tire of these games. I came only for my boy."

"You can't have him," Watari snarled.

"You will not have Hisoka!" he heard Tsuzuki shout. Watari shook his head; did Asato actually think everyone was obsessed with the empath as he was?

"He's not after Bon! He wants Tojo!" he called out. Muraki turned to regard the scientist more fully, tilting his head to one side. He took in the dirty, blood streaked man with a hole in the knee of his pants, covered in dust and clutching a folder as if his life depended on it. Snorting softly, Muraki turned to look at Tsuzuki, aware of the shadows pooling around him.

"Secretary Tatsumi, I'd suggest calling off your darkness before I make this rupture permanent," he drawled. Watari, watching the shadows prepare to attack, inhaled sharply—before coughing up more dust. Muraki watched Tsuzuki chew his bottom lip.

"If I can't have my boy, I will take Tsuzuki-san instead," he offered, as if making a great concession. The shadows reared up and leaped forward, to meet only a solid red wall, a shield around the doctor.

"Take me how?" Tsuzuki demanded. Muraki smiled.

"Oh, I think we'll leave the details to the yaoi writers," he replied, as he held out his hand. Tsuzuki drew back and regarded the hand cautiously.

"Perhaps a better question would be: take you where? Tell Tatsumi to hold back. All I want is dinner."

"Damn if he'll go!" Hisoka ground out. As usual, Muraki ignored him. Watari watched as Tsuzuki reached down and ran one finger down the side of Hisoka's face; the boy hissed and quickly drew back. Tsuzuki then walked forward and placed his hand in Muraki's who tightened his grip and drew the shorter man toward him. The shadows rose up. And then they stopped and melted down into a dark puddle before drifting into a normal darkness. Watari's jaw dropped—_Tatsumi stopped attacking._ What the hell for? Was he going to make Tsuzuki into a sacrificial lamb? Or had Enma stepped in?

The answer seemed to come when Muraki drew Tsuzuki into his arms, whispered something into his ear, and seemed to shimmer for a moment before fading away. The rumbling stopped, the ceiling dropping plaster for a moment longer.

Then silence. Watari stood in the heavy thickness of it all, afraid to even blink. For a moment, all of Meifu was silent. He watched as the dust settled on the ground. Slowly, noise began to creep in—the beeping of a heart monitor, the voices of others above who were peering down through Watari's ceiling and what used to be their floor. A yelp intruded—Watari turned. Hisoka had leapt out of bed and was ripping out his IVs. Dimly, Watari thought that wasn't such a good idea. He exhaled loudly and picked his way across the rubble. He handed Hisoka his shirt which had been stored in a drawer in the bed stand.

"How can you be so calm?" Hisoka shouted.

"Not calm, maybe overwhelmed and confused," Watari replied, surveying the damage in the room.

"How can you stand there?" Hisoka cried, tripping as he tried to put on his jeans to quickly. The boy swore loudly.

"Years of practice." Bon glared at him and headed toward the no longer existent door.

"I'm going up to Chijou. I'm rescuing Tsuzuki," he declared. Tossing his head imperiously, he exited, back ramrod straight. Watari grinned.

"Hisoka off to rescue Princess Asato? You forgot your shining armor," he called.

"I heard that!" Hisoka shouted. Watari began to step toward the door---and paused. Something was wrong. There was only silence in the infirmary. He turned and walked toward Tojo's bed.

The boy was dead. Watari lifted a hand and shut off his heart monitor. For a moment, he remained frozen. All around him, he could hear the commotion of a confused underworld. Then, in a flurry of activity, he tore Tojo's shirt off and flipped him over. He hands traced over the scars; too clinical to be a lover's. There—a new scar, glowing red, presented itself. The curse had been completed. _Muraki wasn't whispering in Tsuzuki's ear; he was finishing his work._ His hands dropped limply to his sides.

An overwhelming sadness and exhaustion filled him. Abruptly, he sat down on Hisoka's bed. The folder in his hand slipped to the floor, papers splayed around his ankles. He sat silent, listening to the rapid footsteps in the hallway.

Then--

footsteps in the room, crunching the tile into smaller bits.

"Let me guess," Watari began woodenly. "The three women's souls were just judged. And Tojo's name has been listed." Tatsumi stood by Watari. He knelt and gathered up the file.

"Yes." Watari looked down at him.

"Do I win a prize?"

"Where did Hisoka go?" Tatsumi avoided the silly question.

"To get his white whale."

"Sure to end in death."

"Lucky for us, we're in immortal."

"Or already dead."

"Always the realist, eh, Tatsumi?"

"When do you think you'll be ready to leave?"

"Oh, gimme a half hour to get all primed for our date, okay?" Watari stood up and took the folder from Tatsumi's hand. He held it to his chest.

"As soon as I'm done with this," he replied more seriously. Tatsumi smiled and gripped Watari's upper arm.

"I'll be tracking Hisoka. I'll come back in an hour." Watari nodded and Tatsumi left him. Instead of retreating into his lab, Watari lay on Hisoka's abandoned bed, and used his propped up knees as a desk. He opened the folder and began reading, continuously glancing over at the dead boy as if to remind himself how pressing this job was.

* * *

_Despite the way it sounds, Watari and Tatsumi aren't officially a couple in my tale. But, do as you wish. White whale is a reference to "Moby Dick." I hope you all enjoyed it and of course, constructive criticism is always welcome and wanted._

_Thank you for reading. _


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